


Downpour

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is, John knew, an unusual life. But well worth getting caught in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 1.

 

It is, John knew, an unusual life. He refused to call it differently, didn't think it was the 'epitome of madness' that Donavan had called it once, never thought of it as insane or crazy, or bloody well mental, none of the myriad of terms that the professional mental health workers weren't allowed to use in their paperwork. It was  _unusual_ , that was all, to have the occasional human body parts chilling in their icebox or cooking in their microwave. 

(And Sherlock had signed an actual paper document agreeing to clean the microwave thoroughly after such experiments. Not that John thought he'd be any more likely to do it but it did add a different flavor to their arguments when he could pull out physical proof of their agreement. A nice change, as it was.)

Unusual, certainly, to anyone looking in from the outside, that was the rub right there. What was unusual to anyone else was more of an ordinary day for John. Chasing criminals, examining bodies, cautiously opening the microwave for the first time of the day; just another day in the life of Sherlock Holmes's blogger. 

Which was why it was passing strange being trapped in a narrow alleyway with Sherlock pressed so hard against him that John could feel the outline of his coat buttons digging into his chest as they clung to each other while rain poured down on them, soaking through their clothes as they stood there, motionless, trying not to get killed. 

~~*~~

The situation had seemed plain enough on the outside, a simple case of hijacking goods to resell on the black market. And Sherlock would surely have refused to investigate if something on the case hadn't caught his attention. There were no interesting deaths, the goods themselves were mundane at best, greenhouse supplies and a few varieties of fertilizer. Whatever it was that caught Sherlock's wandering interest had yet to be revealed to John but that was all right. He was patient and Sherlock's obsessive need to show-off would reveal the intricacies soon enough. 

All of their investigating had led them to the warehouse district, the two of them sneaking along through the darkened buildings to one particular out of the way warehouse, one of the few with lights still blazing in the windows at this hour of the night. Already the sky was rumbling with the first warnings of rain and they'd just crept up to a side door when droplets started to fall. 

"Lovely," John murmured, scooting up under the eaves as best he could just as the downfall began.

"Here," Sherlock whispered, handing John a slender penlight. Silently, he held it on the lock, watching, as he always did, with no small fascination as Sherlock easily picked it, the cylinders falling into place and the door clicking open before either of them had gotten more than mildly damp. 

Silently, they crept in, making their way through a maze of crates, towards the lighted half of the warehouse. Truth be told, John was rather pleased to be sneaking in this time. More often than not, after Sherlock found his way into a building, he neglected to give John the same benefit. For some time John had thought it was simply that Sherlock dismissed him from his mind, refusing to allow anything as bland as John Watson to distract him from the task at hand.

It was only after the…incident, at the swimming pool, that John had had a minor epiphany; He'd been washing dishes, hands wet and soapy, fuming about yet another occasion of standing outside as he waited for Sherlock to open the damned door when his absent thoughts had blindsided him: Sherlock didn't like letting him in if he had too many concerns over John's safety. He'd stood there with soap bubbles trailing down his wrists and it made far too much sense. Still made too much sense now.

Sherlock was perfectly happy to risk his own life and John's as well, until the ratio of danger tipped to a balance that somehow measured at inappropriate levels on the Sherlockian scale. Why else had the bastard gone to the pool on his own, playing his little game with the unknown. John had heard Sherlock's words, his cool triumph as he offered the flash drive…and he'd seen the change when Sherlock had seen him. He'd seen…

John dismissed the idea with a mental snort, creeping after Sherlock into the darkened warehouse. Or maybe Sherlock just didn't want both of them to get arrested for housebreaking; after all, he needed someone to bail him out. 

No point in wondering over ridiculous theories now. Not when Sherlock was guiding them easily past the security cameras, the darkness no contest to his senses. 

"And here we are," Sherlock murmured, slipping into the room…and freezing so abruptly that John collided with him, both of them wobbling frantically in an effort not to fall as John had instantly seen why Sherlock had stopped. 

Not ten steps from them was a fine collection of burly blokes, each of them close to the size of a refrigerator, loading crates into a large truck. Ducked down as they were, they hadn't been seen but John calculated that the crates they were crouched behind would be making their way onto that truck quick enough. 

Well, shit.

Next to him, he felt Sherlock twitch, surely thinking of a way to get the two of them out of there with the minimum of death and pain involved. His gun was an effective deterrent but John didn't relish the idea of trying to hold off a dozen men who looked like they thought rugby was for cowards.

A quick gesture from Sherlock drew John along behind the crates, slipping through and…Oh, Christ, they were getting closer? He trusted Sherlock, he really did, heart hammering and the taste of adrenaline sharp in the back of his throat as they got closer, closer, heard the grunts of effort from men lifting heavy crates, listened to the occasional inane chatter, their curses, and it wasn't until John felt Sherlock's hand on his own that he saw it: one moment in their pattern where all of them had their backs turned, a bare ten seconds that was enough to let them slip through the bay door and out into the alleyway. 

Rain sluiced down on them in an instant torrent, the chilly wetness a minor distraction. John liked to think it wasn't pure luck that the alley was empty, wanted to think that it wasn't one of the few times Sherlock had guessed rather than knew. There wasn't time to wonder about it as they darted down and…found a brick wall. Voices behind them and even in the evening dark there was enough light that they were terribly visible, one of the refrigerator men were going to see them and they were trapped in a dead end--

"Here," Sherlock hissed, dragging John into a narrow alcove that was, Christ, not even three steps from the truck. A storm drain gurgled by their feet and a narrow glance confirmed that they were between the buildings, only someone had bricked it into a sort of small alley some time ago by the state of the crumbling mortar. Probably wouldn't have even bothered with that much if it weren't for the drain and there was something to be grateful for. Now it was only just wide enough for two grown men to secret themselves away and listen to the hard patter of the rain, the occasional drift of words as the men continued loading up their goods. 

Not that John could hear them although he had no doubt that Sherlock did, cataloguing every scrap of helpful information they offered. Even if he could have caught what they were saying, it wouldn't have done John much good and so John concentrated on keeping still, on feeling his heartbeat slow from the adrenaline rush of thinking they might just be getting a decent beating today, if not an outright death sentence.

The bricks behind him were hard against his back; John was pressed up against the building firmly enough to feel the rough edges of each one. Long moments ticked by and John was a little bemused to discover that he actually felt bored. Sherlock was obviously a bad influence and there was nothing to distract him from their environmental discomfort, from rain slicking down the sides of his face. Sherlock's forehead was against his, blocking the worst of it, but he could feel the damp tendrils of Sherlock's longer hair against his temples, soddenly ticklish.

Oh.

Suddenly, his attention had a sharp focus in the feel of Sherlock against him, the hard press of his body holding John still; holding him against the rough bricks and abruptly the colder rain was barely a distraction.

"Sherlock," he whispered, barely a thread of sound and he swallowed, hard, not wanting to consider what Sherlock was hearing in that single word.

"Shhhh!" Hissed close to his ear, softer even than his. Right, bad men, far too close to them. John could hear the scuffing of their shoes, the mumble of them chatting back and forth even though he couldn't make out the words. They needed to be still, they couldn't get caught and Sherlock was bloody well grinding him into the damned wall.

His hips were bony and sharp, bastard was always razor-thin, and right now they were pressed quite firmly in one place that John would very much rather they were not. The rain was still hammering down, droplets of it slicking through Sherlock's hair and dripping down John's face. Wetting his lips and John licked it away, trying not to think of how bloody close Sherlock's mouth was to his own.

Close enough that he could feel his breath, warmer than the chill air around them and Christ, Sherlock was moving against him. Just a little, something like a squirm, like he couldn't hold perfect still -- no surprise there -- even knowing that if they're caught they'll probably be shot and tossed into the Thames so that their pickled corpses can wash ashore.

_Oh, stop,_  John thought desperately, quailing back against the bricks.  _Stop, just hold the fuck still, don't breathe on me, stop touching me_  because that sharp, bony hip led down to a long, hard thigh nearly between John's legs. They were both soaked to the skin, the chill seeping through the layers of John's clothes and all he could feel was Sherlock.

"Sher--" he started again, a thick, low sound that cut off, vanishing into the depths of Sherlock's mouth so suddenly against his own. It was like tasting surreality, the very idea of it suddenly clean and cool against his mouth. Wet, closed lips against his own.

John sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, already raising his hands to clutch at Sherlock's coat only to find strong fingers locked around his wrists, holding him back. Pinning them next to his head against the rough bricks and he was surrounded by Sherlock, caught by his body, his hands, his mouth.

Almost, he resisted; he could, he knew he could. Years of military training couldn't be so quickly dismissed and as good as Sherlock was, he couldn't hold John if he didn't want him to. If he didn't...and John was already weakening, tipping his head up, and parting his lips when Sherlock pulled back.

Rain sheeted down John's face as Sherlock dipped his head down to hiss into his ear, less than a breath of sound. "Quiet!"

John closed his eyes, let the cold of the rain wash down his face, chilling away the faint warmth at his mouth. Quiet, right. Naturally Sherlock would kiss him to shut him up. Truth be told, Sherlock kissing him just to kiss him would be the stranger truth.

Sherlock was still pressed against him, his breath ticklish against John's ear and belatedly, he nodded, tugging lightly at Sherlock's grip on his wrists, silently hinting that now would be a lovely time for Sherlock to let him go.

To his surprise, those long fingers tightened, briefly to the point of pain before they loosened a bit without releasing him.

John bit his lip, holding back the words that wanted to be said. He could still hear movement, a little further away perhaps but not enough to avoid certain pickling if they were caught. Still, there didn't seem to be a reason for Sherlock to have him crammed up against the bricks anymore and John twisted his hands a little, his hint turning into a silent demand:  _Let me go._

Again, Sherlock's grip tightened, his thumb pressing firmly into the soft flesh on the inside of John's wrist, an unspoken word in that as well that John heard quite clearly, disbelieving.

_No._

All right, enough of this. Sherlock might be tall and strong and have lovely cheekbones, but John was well and truly sick of being squashed and wet and...and damn it, getting hard while his roommate played some danger game with the unsuspecting thugs around the corner.

With a harsh twist, John managed to bring one leg up, pressing his heel sharply into the bend of Sherlock's knee. An excellent plan, or would have been, if Sherlock hadn't anticipated it and instead of sprawling out on the pavement, he went with it. A fluid little roll that dragged John along with him and the ground was a great deal wetter than standing in the rain had been.

His coat and jumper were both soaked through with dirty water and John would have been biting back a few of the more vicious curses he knew, the better to avoid a thuggish pickling, if the sudden burden of Sherlock's weight hadn't forced out his last breath.

And now his trousers were soaked through. Lovely.

And Sherlock was bloody heavy, holding him pinned to the ground that was considerably less comfortable than the wall had been, what with the rather large puddle that John was currently occupying. He could hear the gurgle of the drain behind them, one small bit of mercy otherwise their puddle might have been more of a lake. The little alley was barely wide enough for them to lie in it, his elbows scraping brick and if they were caught now, they'd be dead before they could even get to their feet. John pretended a thrilling surge didn't tingle through him at the realization. 

"Sherlock, let me --" up, was what he was going to say, gritting out words that no bloody person was going to hear through the thudding rain around them.

Up was the word that didn't survive the transition. Up, he caught back, died unspoken and unloved into the wet, cool press of Sherlock's mouth once again on his own.

Quiet, they had to be  _quiet_ , he knew that, but somehow he didn't think quiet required Sherlock's tongue to part his lips, delve inside to press with deft slickness against John's.

He was certain it didn't require Sherlock to pull back, to ignore the throaty, pleading sound that garbled up from John's throat as he sucked on John's lower lip, nibbling gently.

His hands were still trapped, his fingers slowly going numb from the hard pressure of Sherlock's grip. It didn't stop him from trying to reach up as Sherlock withdrew. He pulled back enough that John could see his face for the first time since they'd ducked into the alley.

For all that there was very little light he could still see the paleness of Sherlock's eyes, the damp, spikey lashes surrounding them. His hair was a wet, dripping frame surrounding his face, droplets falling from his water-slackened curls and pattering down on John's face.

"John," he murmured, and oh, Christ, his mouth, faintly swollen, lips parted as he ran his tongue over his lips, uselessly licking away rivulets of water.

"You need to be quiet," Sherlock said, barely more than moving his lips. He was already nodding helplessly, trying to pull free from that relentless grip. Sherlock only leaned further away, pale eyes searching John's face, looking for...and who knew what the hell Sherlock was seeing.

Surrendering, John sank back against the pavement, the water beneath him deep enough that he felt the brush of it against his ears. Pebbles, trash, God-knew what else was beneath him, floating past them and Sherlock was moving suddenly, his grip shifting.

Quiet, needed to be quiet, and John stifled his protest even as it melted into mute shock when a knee pressed between his own, spreading his legs, widening the space until Sherlock could fit between them. Oh, god, oh, this was...this was bad, this was lovely, and he had to muffle his groan into the soaked scratchiness of the front of Sherlock's coat. Pulled his legs up until the bricks scraped along his knees, catching on the rough denim even as Sherlock settled against him.

Their coats had ridden up and the hard press between his legs was as unfamiliar as having a heavier, taller person on top of him, as the pressure of a hard cock that wasn't his own, felt even through two pairs of trousers. No, it was Sherlock's hard cock, Sherlock was hard against him, holding his wrists down and rocking their hips together in a smooth, slow rhythm

"Oh, Christ, oh, Christ, oh, fuck, fuck," John chanted silently, burying his face into that heavy damp coat so none of his desperate, breathy words could escape, drift down and warn any criminals lingering nearby.

Barely, he felt Sherlock moving, felt the grip on his wrists shifting. Didn't fathom why until Sherlock lifted up and away and his cry of protest was quickly muffled into a hard kiss. Sherlock's tongue thrust hotly between his lips, barely wincing as John bit down on it a tad too hard. Tasted the faint tang of blood and Sherlock pulled back enough to rub his lips soothingly over John's, hushing him with soft kisses.

A distraction, John decided dimly, and not a bad one, from the hand working skillfully between them, loosening his belt faster than John could have manage with both. Opening his trousers and then in, his hand damp and cold enough that John hissed, the sound lost into Sherlock's mouth.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed even as he wrapped his hand around the hard length of John's cock, even as he slid his thumb over the tip in a brilliant, slippery little movement, pulling another gasp from John.

"Shhhh," Sherlock breathed it again into his mouth, dragging his lips over John's mouth, sharing the taste of the rain. His hand warmed quickly, the coolness shifting to heat in the space of moments. "Shh, you're so hard, John, you're…you're trembling. I can feel it."

He was, John realized, hiding his gaspy whimpers into the slick press of Sherlock's mouth. He was trembling and squirming, soaked to the skin and Sherlock's grip on his cock was as brilliantly perfect as his grip on John's wrists. Surrounded by Sherlock, sucking in desperate, smoggy pants of breath and tasting rain and Sherlock, breathing in Sherlock, whose hand was moving with quick, bright impatience. Jerking him off, dragging him along a rough road of sensation.

Until his whole body shook, arching against the heaviness of Sherlock's weight and John bit his lip hard, felt Sherlock jerk in surprise even as he pushed into the grip of his hand, trying, wanting to get closer. Impossible, not unless he could melt through Sherlock's skin, melt into him and oh, fuck, fuck, John came with a half-strangled sob, choking back sounds even as the light behind his eyes went red and hazy, the splatter of his own come on his belly a bright splash of warmth through the chilling rain.

"...John...fuck...John..." A thin, reedy whisper, and John couldn't resist the pull on his arm, dragging his mostly-numb hand down between their bodies, fumbling through a tangle of wet cloth, down and in and the sudden heat against his own wet, cold hand made John hiss out a curse even as Sherlock forced his hand around him, battering it against the hot, hot pressure of his own cock. Pinning it against him, dragging John's hand into frantic motion until a splash of hot wetness drenched it in slickness.

Sherlock shuddered against him, more movement then sound, his mouth going soft and gentle. It took a long moment of sharp, gasping breaths before John was aware enough to consider just where they were. Soaked to the skin in a growing puddle of dirty rainwater and mingled semen, lying on the ground with Sherlock still sprawled between his legs and his hand was still firmly entrenched in Sherlock's trousers, his cock a damp, softening weight against his palm.

Hrm. Yes.

John almost cleared his throat, a reflexive response to the universe of 'Oh, shit,' he'd suddenly found himself in. Almost, until he remembered abruptly that it was their need to be  _quiet_  that had landed them in this to begin with.

He swallowed it back so hard he nearly choked, settled for carefully tugging his hand free.

Sherlock's drowsy sigh ruffled the short hair around John's ear, his face buried into the curve of John's shoulder. His other hand was still around John's wrist, his grip languid and John swallowed again as his thumb slid up the inside of his wrist and into the cup of his palm, rubbing a tiny circle as he loosened the fist John didn't remember making.

"You're heavy," John dared a whisper because it was true; his legs were starting to get numb as well and it wasn't as though he had enough room to move a bit. 

"You're still trembling," Sherlock murmured softly. His lower lip dragged against John's ear in an entirely wonderful way.

"I...yes. I am," John whispered, helplessly. He was, and surely part of it was being chilled but the rest...his hands both felt bruised and sore, his trousers were soaked with a variety of liquids that he didn't want to consider too closely, and Sherlock was still on top of him, though he'd shifted enough to let John draw in a deep, eager breath.

"Are they still out there?" John whispered, straining to hear. Nothing but the hard patter of rain hammering down on the world, rushing through the gutters in a pale imitation of the ocean.

"No," Sherlock sighed into his ear. His tongue had joined his lips and John tensed, not at all certain he wanted to feel Sherlock tracing the whorls inside his ear with the slick tip of his tongue.

"Good," John said, daring to speak a little louder as he pressed his free hand against Sherlock's chest. "Then let me up...let me...Sherlock...!"

The last was more of a yelp as his wrist was captured yet again, the poor thing following his own example as an effective hostage as Sherlock pinned him again to the hard ground.

"No," Sherlock said almost absently. His explorations dipped lower, his tongue a slippery spot of warmth in the little hollow under John's ear. 

"I'm soaked and I'm cold," John bit out, and if his struggles earlier had been half-hearted, they were nothing so milky now. "Let me up!"

"I never should have proven to you that your limp was psychosomatic," Sherlock said abruptly, and the press of his lips against the line of John's chin barely softened it, the gentle nibble as he worked his way down John's throat.

"Sherlock, please," John said, closing his eyes at the weakness in his voice.

"All you've done without it is manage to find ways to run away from me," Sherlock continued, sucking a hard kiss at the base of John's throat. Bruising him, marking him with startling ferocity. 

"...I never--ah!"

"Mary....Sally....Jeannette..." Every name was followed by a sharp bite, each one soothed with a wet lave of tongue, leaving behind a ring of bruises.

"Allison...Rebecca..."

"I...ah!...I never went out with a Rebecca..." John protested. That earned him a hard bite in the middle of the chest, making him yelp aloud, cold rain falling into his opened mouth.

"I know," Sherlock murmured and the darkness in his voice made John shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the growing chill sinking into him. "But you would have. You would have every woman in London before me."

"No," John shook his head, water splashing around him. "No...I..."

"Yess..." A soft hiss of sound. "You would."

"Sherlock, let me go." John said it as steadily as he could. Not struggling, not protesting. Not even when Sherlock loomed back over him, pale eyes large in his damp face, his hair a wet cap streaming water down it. 

"No," he said again, softly. "You had your chance and then you let me touch you."

"And if you let me go, then I can touch you back," John replied with quiet patience.

One slow blink, another, and for a man as incredibly intelligent as Sherlock was, he could be a remarkable idiot when he tried. The grip on his wrists loosened in increments, his fingers stinging as the blood flow resumed and Sherlock didn't move when John drew his hands free, not even when John used them to cup his dripping face. Tugged his head down until John could tip his own up, offering an uncertain kiss, pressing his wet lips to Sherlock's almost chastely. 

Chaste didn't last any further than the first flick of his tongue and then John wasn't holding Sherlock's face so much as he was holding on, letting Sherlock devour him. Locking their mouths together until John couldn't hear the rain over his own ragged breathing, could only think of the way Sherlock felt against him, the way he tasted, rolling his hips up against Sherlock's in frantic, desperate jerks, already wanting more, eyes aching from being shut so tightly and John let it all wash over him like the cleansing pour of rain. 

An unusual life, an ordinary extraordinary day, and when Sherlock cried out softly into John's mouth, stiffening and convulsing and heavy and lovely, John wasn't thinking about it or much of anything else, anymore. Just the taste of Sherlock and the rain, and the water swirling around them in a cold flood. 

 

-finis-


End file.
